


Begging

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Body Dysphoria, Coming of Age, Consensual Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom!Kylo, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fat!Reader, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, Kinda, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Situational Humiliation, fatphobia, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: "You just nod, looking out the window again. You wonder if he’s rejecting you. It’s not clear enough and you don’t understand men. Maybe this is his way of letting you down easy—letting you know he doesn’t want to have sex. He should reject you, you understand that: a man like him doesn’t belong with someone as fucked up and ugly as you. He can do better. He should do better."





	Begging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kassanovella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassanovella/gifts), [MalevolentReverie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentReverie/gifts).



> For kassanovella and MalevolentReverie, whose fics have helped me process my fucked-up emotions, of which there are many.
> 
> TW for body issues and other mental illness-related stuff. Basically read at your own risk.

You’re halfway through a differential equations problem set when you get a text.

_Yo, my little brought me coffee and mentioned that he’s single (again). I know you’re in your hoe phase right now so I showed him your pic. He’s gonna meet us tonight at the show._

You roll your eyes at your phone and thumb the power button on the side. _Whatever_. It’s cute that Steve is trying to set you up, but you could do without dating at this school. You know what they say: the odds are good, but the goods are odd.

Your tune changes, however, when your friend texts you a photo.

The man—man, not boy, and certainly not an undergrad—smiles at the camera, a goofy half-quirked grin that suggests he might just be as uncomfortable as you are with being photographed. He’s muscular; it’s only an upper body pic, taken in your friend’s TA office, but you can tell it from his shoulders alone. His biceps, where they show, are large and toned. His t-shirt fits snug, flattering in the way you wish tight clothes would look on you but don’t. He has a long face, slightly hollowed in the cheeks, and it’s smattered with small moles and birthmarks.

They look nice, you think, on him. They wouldn’t on you—and maybe not on anyone else, either. But they work for him and his brand of slightly off-kilter, atypical beauty.

Full lips are bordered on top and bottom with facial hair: a full, slightly unkempt mustache and a small goatee. The man’s eyebrows are untrimmed, masculine, their arches just barely triangular. A thick patch of hair lines his chin, matching the black mane of hair that falls in loose waves, clipped and wild at the ends, to just above his shoulders.

You text back in a half-panic—there’s no way this guy would actually be interested, he’s way out of your league—asking which photo your friend showed him and what his name is.

_Your chat group photo. And it’s Ben._

* * *

 

 

You stare into the small mirror haphazardly taped to the back of your room’s door. You look nothing like your group chat photo—not anymore.

_Fuck._

You’d uploaded the photo when you started college, setting it and forgetting it until now. I mean, it’s not like you knew it was going to be used like this. You weren’t _trying_ to deceive anyone.

You ran your hands over the front of the romper—pink and obnoxious like the kind of girl you wanted to be, but never quite managed to become—and smoothed the material down. You pretended, for a moment, that the pouch at your stomach was loose fabric instead loose fat. The photo showed a version of you that was thirty pounds lighter than the past fall.

That wasn’t even the worst of it, given that you’d gained about eighty pounds since fall. It was now spring of sophomore year, four months since your boyfriend had gone completely silent.

That was its own story.

You’d met him—Michael—years ago, online, in a technical forum, when you were eleven or twelve. He had never been inappropriate; in fact, he ignored you so steadfastly that you often fluctuated between hating him and crushing on him, the product of hormone-driven affection. There was no one at home to pay attention to you—mom working and depressed, dad MIA—so you’d turned to the internet. The forum users became your best friends; you became physically ill with anxiety when you were away from your computer for too long.

Your obsession with the man—older, wiser, always happy to teach you lots about computers—grew over time. The anxiety festered; when you grew up, would he ever return your feelings? Did he even know? You poured emotional energy into the connection, even if it was only platonic—even if it would only ever be platonic. You needed that intimacy, even if it would only ever be a close friendship.

That all changed when you both attended one of the forum’s conferences. You were sixteen—seventeen within two months, which you let everyone know proudly—and had managed to fund your way overseas. You paid for your own airfare, your own hotel, your own everything. You’d been working odd jobs for years; you’d even moved to live on your own last summer. You had a grip on what you wanted out of life, and by now you knew how to get it.

One night, you went out to eat for a friend’s birthday that coincided with the conference dates. You sat next to Michael and found yourself falling, with impossible ease, into a conversational black hole that swallowed all other chatter at the table. Your friend would later remark that you’d ruined his birthday. You didn’t notice at the time, of course. You only saw your own feelings, only felt the spark of hope that maybe Michael felt the same. Perhaps you were selfish. Maybe you were impossibly self-centered. It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought so.

When the restaurant closed and a few friends wanted to continue drinking, you struggled to find open bars. You suggested, boldly, as was your nature, that the party continued in one of your friends’ hotel rooms. It couldn’t be yours, naturally: you were rooming with others to split the cost. Michael, as you well knew, was the only one who wasn’t.

Your friend group bought liquor at a local general store and took the subway to his hotel. It was stunning and polished, a far cry from the two- or three-star joints that you were used to. Everything seemed to have a glitter about it. This—here, with him—this was the life you wanted. It was something _better_. So, when your other friends eventually grew tired and made to leave, you didn’t. You had packed away a change of clothes in your backpack just in case.

Michael agreed, maybe reluctantly, to let you stay. You convinced him to watch a movie with you, though you fell fast asleep half-way through it. When you woke up, it was you who suggested sex. He hesitated—he was a virgin, too, which you had suspected—and the mess of double-virgin sex ended up painful and messy. Still, he was sweet to you, loving, bought you dinner the next day and cuddled in bed.

This was the life you wanted. This was better indeed.

You cried when it was time to fly home.

The relationship continued from there—barely romantic, put on the backburner until college—and that emotional intimacy only grew. You told him everything and he, you. You grew inseparable, much to the mock-disgust of your friends. Your mom approved. Michael was kind, generous, smart. He was well-off and treated you better than dad ever treated her.

You entered a formal relationship in January of freshman year. You asked him, of course. He seemed too reserved to. He was, as usual, self-aware; he told you that he didn’t ask because he didn’t know what the age-gap meant to you. He didn’t want to hurt you. You helped each other through school and work; you were there through all the illnesses, worries, everything.

He went completely silent that September. There wasn’t any more context than that: no fighting, no issues you knew about, nothing at all. He simply vanished off the face of the earth.

You knew he wasn’t dead: you checked the obituaries in his state many times. You logged into your shared Netflix—from which he hadn’t blocked you—and checked his viewing activity. He was, demonstrably, very much alive.

You called, of course. You called and screamed and texted and emailed. It was like a slow-motion car wreck that only grew more frustrating and humiliating with time. At first, you weren’t even sure what was happening.

_Are you okay? Work busy?_

Then, over time, it morphed into intense embarrassment.

_I don’t understand why you couldn’t just tell me you wanted to end it. Didn’t you at least owe me that?_

By the end of that fall, you had gained nearly a hundred pounds. You teetered on the edge of alcoholism and had withdrawn from most of your classes that semester; in the two you stuck through, you received one much-fought-for A and one barely-scraping-by D.

That feeling of total and unresolved rejection was crushing. It had already been hard enough to explain why you a long-distance relationship with an older man whom none of your friends had ever met. And now, _this_. You fluctuated wildly between complete numbness and intense emotion. Some days you couldn’t get out of bed; some days you couldn’t bear the sight of it, choosing to waste the day away in bars and clubs and restaurants instead.

So, when you stared into your shitty Walmart mirror, thinking about Ben, you couldn’t help but notice everything wrong with yourself. After all, that’s what you were best at. As a teenager, you had managed a barely-overweight BMI, but only through intensive calorie-counting and a large helping of self-hatred. Now, with no emotional energy to police yourself, you had swelled up beyond control. You were no longer the girl in that group chat photo. You were no longer happy and smiling and brunette and bright, which had always made up for the fact that your eyes are uneven and your face asymmetrical.

Now, instead, you had all those deformities _and more_.

You pressed translucent powder into your nearly-drag makeup. You’d painted a new face over your real one, contouring away the cheekbones that didn’t quite match, the chin and forehead that were a little too prominent, the nose that was slanted. You tapped some bronzer into the cleft of your breasts, creating dimension on top of the two bras you wore stacked on top of each other. You had shimmied into two different shapers to control your sausage-body. You knew your thighs would rub together and chafe, so you applied deodorant between them. You’d changed your hair during your mental breakdown, like any girl would: it was now bleach-blonde, highly damaged, and straightened to the edge of the earth and back.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance in hell that Ben would like you.

 

 

You perched yourself on the edge of your seat, hips too wide to sit on the stool properly without your fat spilling over. Steve sits across from you, sipping on a too-strong margarita. You wait, together, awkwardly, for the drag show to begin.

Ben is late.

Steve says Ben is always late.

The show begins. Alaska Thunderfuck’s _Hieeee_ plays over the loudspeakers, introducing a white-girl bridesmaid-heavy crowd to the rules of drag.

You jiggle your leg with anxiety, which bounces your tits, which you’re aware of but don’t care enough to fix. Maybe you’re even proud of them; your face looks screwed up, but at least _they_ look good. An old man at the table across from you takes a cell phone picture. You even pose for it.

A man walks to your table with a slow, self-assured swagger. It’s bow-legged but cool: the kind of walk that suggests he has a huge cock. You watch, silently, sipping your drink, as the man you’ve been waiting for takes a seat at your table.

“Hey, Steve,” he says with an impossibly warm smile. His eyes, a deep shade of brown, crinkle at the edges. He turns to you. “Hey, you are—?”

You act like nothing’s wrong and introduce yourself. A look—incredibly brief, just a single flash—shows on his face.

“Oh,” he says. That warm smile comes back, charismatic and charming. “Of course.” He says your name and shakes your hand.

You shove the thought—the realization you know to be true, that he didn’t recognize you and that you’re not his kind of girl—out of your head. Why should it be so impossible for an attractive man to like you?

Ben is funny, as you quickly find out. He has a quick wit and makes for a good storyteller, even though the pauses between songs are brief and far between. He orders seasoned fries and shares the basket with you. Your belly feels warm inside; you relax a little into the soft padding of the chair.

He’s gracious the entire night, even with a group of girls—one of whom is friends with Steve—comes over to chat uninvited. You glower a little over your drink. You’ve always sworn to be the girl who isn’t jealous of other girls; the kind of girl who only watches movies that pass the Bechdel test, the kind of girl who would never say that she’s not like other girls.

You glare anyway.

You find out that he’s from Alaska, that he has a special needs brother whom he takes care of, that he runs marathons and plays the cello and is fluent in sign language.

He’s like the fucking jackpot.

He grins as you steal another fry. He even winks at you, large frame leaning in close, and places a hand on your knee. You feel one broad thumb, mostly smooth with a single callous, stroking your skin.

 

* * *

 

 

Your party stands by the edge of the curb after the show. You’re saying your goodbyes, putting finishing touches on what you hope has been a good first impression. You want to see Ben again.

“Well, that was fun,” Steve says. He turns and walks towards his car. You follow. “No,” he says, stopping. He gestures back to the curb, “You two have fun.”

Your face turns a shade of instant scarlet as your friend moves to leave without you. “Steve—uh—”

“Bye.”

You call after him. "Are you seriously not going to give me a ride?"

This wasn’t planned—well, _you_ hadn’t planned it—and you’re absolutely mortified.

You turn to Ben, who looks as if he hasn’t had a hand in planning anything either.

“Um.”

“Hey.”

“I—uh—” you gesture, futile, between him and Steve’s car. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No worries, come on, I’ll take you home.”

He turns, taller than you’d noticed, shoulders broad at the top of a muscular back. You follow like a lost duckling down the street, darkened from a lack of streetlights.

“Really,” you start, trying to sound causal, “I really am sorry about him. I don’t—I’m not sure why he’s like this sometimes.”

“Steve is a character, that’s for sure,” he smiles, gesturing to a jeep that’s propped up on large wheels. “Here,” he says.

Ben opens the passenger side door for you. His chest is warm; his embrace feels safe. Something in your reptile brain begs you to scramble your DNA with him. There’s something about him that just screams _father_ , protector, and your extensive daddy issues come knocking.

A large hand plants itself on the back of your thigh. He lifts you with ease, giving you a leg up to the passenger’s seat, and shuts the door behind you. He’s leapt into his side before you can process that this is really happening—you really get to be alone with this man—and soon the car is starting.

He reaches over, eyes full of the warmth that makes you feel butterflies inside. He buckles your seatbelt.

The car stereo glows to life. It pumps alternative music through the speakers—folk songs that sound vaguely of country but not quite. He would be that type, you think, to have a juiced-up car and like country music. He’s the kind of man who remembers where he grew up fondly and loves his momma. He probably prays to god and goes to church, too. He probably believes in justice says there are two sides to every argument and is too-chill about elections.

You’re nothing like him.

“So,” he starts, voice rich and full like butter, melting your thoughts away entirely. “What now?”

You’ve turned down the interstate. Your shitty coastal town soars by you, run-down and empty. You’re only here for school, and the time can’t pass fast enough; there’s only so many confederate flags you can manage to ignore before you finally lose it.

“Whatever you want.” You’re staring out the window so you don’t have to look at him when you say it. Anything he wants.

He goes silent for a moment. His eyes stay glued to the road above, large hands gripping the steering wheel.

“I’d like to play with your breasts.”

It comes out a little gravelly, almost like a low growl. Your vision swims. It’s like Christmas and more; you can’t believe this is happening. You’d ask him to repeat himself, but you don’t want him to have to ask twice.

_Anything. You can have anything. Take it._

“Sure.”

It’s all the confirmation he needs. He reaches, still somehow seeming like a gentleman, and reaches into the deep V-neck of your romper.

It does impossible things to you, how he touches you in complete silence, eyes still glued to the road, driving with one hand. He has the kind of masculine confidence you feel a little guilty for being attracted to; he’s too perfect, too much of a gender role ideal, and somehow it seems like a betrayal of feminism—or something like that.

A huge hand cups one breast, then the other.

You wonder if he’s disappointed that your real tits are less than a full handful. You’re sure he is. You can almost tell, intuitively, just by how his touches seem to slow. They seem less enthusiastic than you had imagined.

Maybe you’re in your own head too much.

“Do you want to, uh, hit up your place or something?”

This breaks the spell of silence. He stops, dropping his hand away for a moment, and looks at you.

“Oh, uh, well my brother has sensory issues, so… it’s probably best if we don’t disturb him.”

You just nod, looking out the window again. You wonder if he’s rejecting you. It’s not clear enough and you don’t understand men. Maybe this is his way of letting you down easy—letting you know he doesn’t want to have sex. He should reject you, you understand that: a man like him doesn’t belong with someone as fucked up and ugly as you. He can do better. He _should_ do better.

“But I know a place we can go.”

A singular sentence quiets your doubts, makes them obsolete. You nod and hum quietly to yourself a while, hands clasped in your lap. You watch the highway rush by.

“How old are you?”

You’re not sure what possesses you to ask—maybe simple curiosity. Maybe the burning need to make conversation, to know him.

He smirks, amused. His eyes crinkle again. That warm expression crosses his face.

“How old do you think I am?”

You find yourself smirking, too. It’s a quiet moment, a shared moment. It feels nice, like there’s an inside joke that exists just between you two. You could get used to it. You hope you do—that he’ll maybe look at you like this always.

“Twenty-eight?”

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Good fuckin’ guess. I’m twenty-seven. How did you do that?”

You smile. A blush heats your cheeks. “Not sure, you just look twenty-eight I guess.”

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head a little. Those big hands turn the steering wheel off the highway and onto an exit ramp.

“And you?” he asks.

“Nineteen.”

“Young,” he murmurs, contemplative. “Real young.” He glances over at you, briefly, like it isn’t meant for you to notice.

If you were the woman you wish you were, you would turn and ask if he thought you were making a mistake. You would ask if he thought you were being sleazy, or slutty, even if you didn’t believe in either construct. But you aren’t that brave, not really. You want to know what he thinks of you, but only if it’s positive.

The jeep jumps and falls over large bumps, huge divots in the dirt road causing the suspension to rise and fall. You grip the handle above your window.

You must have looked scared, for he chuckles a little.

“Sorry,” he says, “Only off-roading for a minute. These potholes are new.”

He parks after a minute. It’s well into the night; the only glimmers of light are from a far-off development complex where a handful of new homes stand. There’s too much light pollution to see the stars, even out here, but you don’t mind. You’re not much of a romantic. You imagine that he is—with some other kind of girl. You’re not that kind of girl.

“So.”

He turns the key in the ignition. The car goes off.

“So.”

A beat of silence passes. You chew on your lip.

“Can I touch you?”

You nod. Of course he can. You’ll take anything from him—anything at all that you can get.

His hand slides under your romper again, this time along your thigh. His hand reaches your skin and fumbles for a moment with the roll of fat that falls to the top of your thighs. You shift, awkward, embarrassed, and put the seat back. The roll shifts when you stretch out. You feel comfortable in your own skin again.

He thumbs aside the panties of your two shapers—you don’t look at him, you’re too afraid of the possibility that he’s disappointed—and a finger dips into your slit. He traces along it, quietly, saying nothing, only breathing. He reaches your clit and presses down, rubbing in constant little circles. He’s done this a million times before. It’s obvious. He’s a _man_.

You lean back and allow yourself to close your eyes. A little moan escapes. You ask it without looking.

“What about you?”

You hear a zip a moment later, then the faint slapping of skin. He’s still touching you, rubbing at you harder than you could manage for yourself, while he strokes himself with other hand.

“Are you left-handed?”

“No.”

“So how—”

“Shhh,” he shushes you, mouth pressing to your throat. You obey. You’re quiet for him, desperate to be good for him. You place your hands on the middle console and the side of the car because you don’t know what else to do.

“Come here,” he whispers after a moment, breath hot and teasing on your neck. Your eyes water with need as his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck. “Let’s get your mouth on me.”

It’s welcome, of course. You’re happy to blow him, more excited for his dick than you’ve ever been for anyone’s.

It’s long and thick and alabaster, just like him. You’ve never seen a cock you’d describe as pretty, but his might be it. The head glistens with leaked pre-cum, the very tip flushed pink. His pubic hair is waxed away; you’re not surprised.

You lick your lips and take the head between them. Truthfully, you’ve only given a few blowjobs in your life, and you’re still unsure of yourself.

“Fuck,” he moans, “yes.”

The huge hands that you’ve watched all night make their way through your hair, gripping lightly at your scalp. He moves you where he wants you, and you let him.

“Good girl.”

It’s too much; you reach between your own legs, moving aside your own roll of fat, and rub at your clit. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, slowly, and it feels like the best kind of being used.

Ben pulls you off his cock with a pop, letting you come up for air. You breathe in and out, lungs willing with air, and it slips out.

“Please.”

“Please?” he echoes, softly, sounding a little dangerous. Something darkens in his eyes, the kind glimmer morphing into something else.

You can feel the spittle on your chin, wet and sticky. You nod.

“Suck my balls,” he murmurs. It’s a command this time—an order.

You take one in your mouth. It’s fat, heavy, and you can feel the faint thrum of his pulse somewhere in his thigh, which rests warm against your cheek.

“Look at you. Begging for my cock…”

His hands snake into your hair again, pulling strands aside so he has a clear view of your face. He taps on your cheek with the palm of his hand, not quite a full slap.

“I said _suck_.”

You suck lightly on the ball in your mouth, pulling it away from his body gently. He moans and hums his approval, dark eyes watching you between his thighs.

“Now the other.”

You obey, taking the other in your mouth. Your tongue licks a stripe over the seam of his balls; he shudders and groans and tugs hard on your hair.

His cock is back in your mouth before you can say a word. He thrusts harder, the gentleman gone, and presses on the back of your head.

“Please? Please fuck your mouth? Is that what you want?”

You nod, feebly, and his hips work to push deeper in your throat. “Take it,” he growls.

You do, as much as you can, throat protesting the treatment. He thrusts, powerful and inescapable, and holds your head flush to his crotch.

“Take it,” he orders. “All of it.”

You try, but the head catches in your throat and makes you choke and sputter. He seems to enjoy that, for what it’s worth, and tries forcing the last inch.

It’s too much, and a particularly powerful pulse of your gag reflex sends you gasping for air. He lets you breathe for a moment. His thumb strokes the side of your face.

“I want to feel you gag. Understand?”

It’s rough—there’s an almost cruel edge to his voice now. All the thrusting in your throat caused your eyes to water. Little streams escape the edges, smearing mascara in tiny trails onto your cheeks and down your face.

You just nod.

“Good,” he groans. “Such a messy girl.”

He guides you down again, cock sliding along your tongue until it hits the back of your throat. He shoves through the resistance there, holding two handfuls of your hair in either fist.

“Stay there,” he commands. “Gag.”

He waits for a moment—patiently, you think—until it becomes clear that you won’t. He thrusts against your reflex, rapidly, until you do, strings of spit flooding your mouth and pooling in his lap.

“Good girl,” he praises, rubbing along your cheek again, “that’s what I like.”

A strange warmth settles in your belly, even as the thrusts of his cock make you cry. You gag, hard, and something about it feels right. Everything’s out of your control, all voices in your head have gone quiet: you simply exist to please.

“Gag.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ben drives you back to your apartment. He doesn’t say goodbye, and neither do you. He followed you on Instagram over dinner, but your follower count has gone down one by morning. You don’t hear from him again, not that you expected to, though sometimes you check his feed and thumb through it idly.

There’s only one new photo since that night. He poses with a girl, tanned and athletic and beautiful, ocean sunset in the background. You know her. She was there that night; she came over to chat.

_My love <3 _

**Author's Note:**

> Probably needs a re-write and more editing but I'm kind of emotionally exhausted in life at the moment.


End file.
